Snapple Fact #214: Giraffes Can Lick Their Own Eyes

I wrote another sapphics poem, just for fun. There is something missing from it though, and I can't quite figure out what it is. It really need some workshopping!

Sapphics of Rubberneckers

Cramped on roads that sweat in the fire of traffic,
Hazy air congested with fumes and heat ex-
haustion, never knowing if they will ever
Reach their appointments.

Necks that twist with curious eyes, they watch in
shiny cars, reflecting a bleeding sun that
Hangs at noontime. Red like the stop sign forcing
Drivers to care more.

Cars as statues, bound in desire for green lights.
Stony silence melting when drivers honk and
Noises pierce the air. In the traffic, no one
Cares about violent

Crashes. Names now pointless, it's over. Soon the
cars will drive, no traffic to hinder. Lives ad-
vancing, no one bothers to ask his name. The
Paper said Robert.

The poem is kind of depressing to me. I don't really write depressing poems well, so if it's not convincing, please tell me! It took me a really long time to get the Sapphics aspect right, but I feel like meter helps me explore new options. For instance I'll write something and realize it doesn't fit in the meter so I'll have to expand and find new words that end up giving the poem a deeper meaning. Even though meter makes my brain hurt after a while, it is very rewarding. I like my Paris one (the one below) better. Oh well, I'll keep trying.

Snapple Fact #168: One Brow Wrinkle Is the Result of 200,000 Frowns

The moral of the story, don't frown!

I am extremely happy right now because I have finished my Sapphics poem, one of my assignments in creative writing. Here it is:

Sapphics of the Man Who Painted Paris
Based on the photograph Paris by Marc Riboud

Paris skyline, hovering over buildings.
Fading down, succumbing to newer brighter
Colors. Not too clearly the solid black or
White that frames the view.

Waking up, already the stars are leaving
cold in hallow skies, he is placing brushes
In a metal box that he carries on his
Way to the Eiffel.

Painting gray on faithfully peeling towers
Disregarding rainbows, just bluish grayish
Skies that wander endlessly, moving in and
Out of the city.

Singing as the people below are marching.
Traffic, swarms of heads, like an army on its
way to battle. Smoky and tired roads that
Dust in congestion.

Overlooking chatter he watches, listens.
Aging, graying terriers yap like wheels that
Screech too loudly. Children in strollers crying,
Endlessly wailing.

Ends of days bring ashen and dark horizons.
Gone is dawn’s ambiguous somber sky where
Rain rests, clouds sleep, silvery moons collide. The
Skyline of Paris.

More later!

Snapple Fact #101: About Half of All Americans Are On a Diet On Any Given Day

I was working on a piece that seemed like it should be easy. It's about rebellious teenagers, and as a normal teenager living in a normal place with a normal family and a generally normal life I should know a two or thing about being rebellious. But this piece was just sucking, and I couldn't figure out why. (I know, I know, as a "good" writer I should be able to write about anything I want to, but you write what you know... right? Write what you know, draw what you see? So If I don't know anything, I can't write anything...right?)
Usually I delete the stupid chain emails I get from my younger sister, but because she decided to write me a cute little note on the top I decided to read it. Apparently, Ghandi himself wrote it, and if I didn't email it to twenty people within the next 96 hours my life would not improve drastically and everything I have ever dreamed of would not take shape. Anyway, in between corny lines about respecting other people and striving for world peace there was this little sentence, the smallest in the bunch. "Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly." That just stuck out. I started to think about being in middle school, muddle school, and trying to be such a rebel. It pissed me off that I couldn't think of any good ways to get in trouble without being so drastic because I was too afraid to misbehave. I didn't want to be punished. At this point, after deleting the email from my inbox and moving onto one promising me a vacation to Aruba, I had an epiphany.
The reason I am having so much trouble writing a story about an outcast is because I have no idea what it is like to be different. Compare me to anyone and I'm sure you'll find similarities, even ones so inane like we both have purple linens. But I am no different from anyone else. I can't be a rebel because I have nothing to rebel against. Everything that is rebelable has already been done (rebelable, not a word, you know what I mean) and I wouldn't be much of an anarchist if I copied someone else would I? Rebels are independant, free of all constrictions and inhibitions, ground breakers and earth shakers. I'm the most sane person I know.
I guess that's why I am having trouble writing about someone with an interesting personality. So that's the epiphany of the day. I can't write because I'm not a rebel and I'm not a rebel because I'm too behaved a person. It sucks to be nice.


P.S. I hope this counts as mailing this to twenty people, because I could really use a boyfriend. One with a motorcycle and a mohawk and piercings in unspeakable places.

Snapple Fact #143: "Q" is the Only Letter in the Alphabet Not Appearing in the Name of Any U.S. State

Just to start off:

Memories of Flight

Remember when
our feet could reach the sky
on the tire swing
that sagged on rusted chains?

Our legs extended.
No noise, just the sigh
and crack and ping
as the tired swing sang

beneath us. Please lend
me another memory. Mine
were cast aside, flung
to where all other plain

thoughts go. And
I’m not sure how or why
but other, grown up things
took their place in my brain.

So please, remind
me as we say good-bye,
before all other memories
seem the same.

It contradicts itself, I know but I am working on it. Other than that... any suggestions?